by Renée Watson
I step inside, and instead of the sad eyes, my favorite security guard gives me a hug, like he always does. The pounding settles, and I go inside to find Isaac, who is sitting on a bench inside the lobby.
“Hey.” I tap him on his shoulder. “Have you been waiting long?”
“I got here way earlier than planned. No train issues, imagine that,” Isaac says. “You never know coming from the Bronx.” He stands and hugs me. “Glad you could join me for my last Brown Art Challenge outing. I know your dad said it won’t count, but I mean—it’s the Black Panther Party. I gotta get some points for this. Plus, he’s not the one who told me about it. I found out about this one myself, especially after seeing the exhibit on Puerto Rican Freedom Fighters at El Museo. It just blows my mind that all these communities of color were building off each other and making art to form this big resistance . . . together.” He laughs. “So you can see I’m into it. You ready?”
“Ready.”
We go inside and enter the exhibit room on the main floor. I feel small walking past these massive posters, so big you have to stand back to see it all. The first poster I see has a young boy holding up a newspaper that says All Power to the People in one hand, and The Black Panther in the other. The boy’s mouth is open, like he is shouting something out. There’s a white square next to the print that explains more about the image. It talks about the Black Panther Party and how art was used as a means to get their message across. I am sure to take notes in my head because I know Dad will ask me what I learned when I get home.
Isaac is standing in front of a print that is a collage of different patterns all making up a hat that sits over a black child’s face. The rims of his glasses have other children in them; in the left lens, a woman holding a little girl’s hand; in the right, a group of children eating at a table. There are so many little details hiding in this one big poster. The longer I stand there, the more new things I see that I didn’t catch right away, like the words at the very top that say We Shall Survive. Without a Doubt. I am struck by the confidence in that statement. I take a photo of the poster, making sure I get the top. I want to keep that saying at the forefront of my mind this school year, and always. I will survive. Without a doubt.
Isaac shakes his head and says, “Did you read this?” He points to the summary next to the poster. “Did you know the FBI tapped Emory Douglas’s phone? That’s how powerful his art was. They thought of it as combative and too critical of the U.S. government. That’s like, a whole new level of what it means to be an art-ivist,” Isaac says.
We keep moving through the gallery, but as slow as we’re going, I doubt we will see the exhibits upstairs. We can only stay for an hour. I stand at the next poster forever just looking at the bold blue background and the brown faces emerging from the left side of the page. People are holding signs that say Freedom Now and U.S. Gov’t Stop Killing Black People Now!!! “This could have been made last week,” I say.
“Yeah. That’s so messed up. These posters were made in the seventies. We’re still holding up the same signs.”
I keep walking; Isaac stays behind. He sits on the floor, takes his sketchbook out, and starts drawing. Just like he does sometimes at school, in the hallway, leaning up against his locker during lunch. His pencil moving fast across the page. His eyes glancing up at the poster, then back down. Isaac notices me staring at him. “Come join me,” he says.
“I can’t draw,” I remind him.
“Write something,” he says. “Pick one of these images and just . . . write.”
I hesitate and then join Isaac on the floor. I lean against the wall that has no art and take my notebook out of my bag. I focus on one of the smaller framed images. It looks like a comic, except there is no color and the squares aren’t connected. There’s a story linking all the drawings together. A story about the conditions of living in the projects. It’s called Public Housing USA. Each tenant speaks, and Emory Douglas’s art amplifies the words. The story starts off as a letter and goes into all the things that need to be tended to in the projects—rats, stopped-up toilets, leaking sinks, nowhere for children to play. The first line says Hello, Public Housing Authority. This is a tenant of your slum housing calling you again. The word “again” stands out to me. I start writing.
We sit together, drawing and writing, as people walk by. Isaac says, “I don’t even care about the Brown Art Challenge anymore. It was just nice to come and do this.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I’ll have to tell my dad. He’ll want to come see too. The Young Lords were inspired by the Black Panther Party. He’ll love this exhibit.”
“Can I read what you wrote so far?” he asks.
I hand him my notebook and take his sketchbook. We take each other in. I think how if I had to plan out a perfect first date, this would be it. Maybe lunch or dessert afterward, but when this is over, we’re meeting up with Nadine and Chelsea. Maybe friendship is enough. Maybe I want more.
If I take Chelsea’s advice, I should just say something to Isaac. Stop waiting for him to make the first move. I don’t know why women are taught to be pursued, chased. What’s the worst that could happen if I tell Isaac that I have feelings for him? I think about telling him right here, right now.
“What are you thinking about?” Isaac asks.
“Oh, nothing. Just, just taking all this art in,” I say. He doesn’t know I am referring to him when I say this.
Isaac walks home with me so we can meet up with Chelsea and Nadine. My house used to be the hangout spot, but it’s kind of hard to enjoy movies or game night with the soundtrack of Dad vomiting or moaning in the background. The whole house feels sick. No matter how much Mom and I clean, or light candles, or water the plants, or display bright-colored throw pillows on the sofa, there’s a sadness and staleness that hovers here.
I hate that Jason is growing up in a home so unlike the one I had in elementary school: a home with Dad standing over the grill in the backyard, drizzling his special secret sauce over chicken or steak. A home with bedtime stories read radio-theater style, with Mom and Dad acting out all the voices. Jason won’t have memories of dyeing Easter eggs and being so jealous of Dad who knows how to mix colors and create one-of-a-kind designs. He won’t remember Saturday mornings eating Mom’s french toast—the rare time we eat as a family at the dining room table. None of those things happen anymore. But today, I asked Mom and Dad if Chelsea, Nadine, and Isaac could come over, and they said yes.
When Isaac and I get to my block, we walk up the steep steps of the brownstone. I need to rake; leaves are covering the sidewalk, the steps. I open the door and go inside. Mom says hello to both of us and calls out from upstairs, “I put out some snacks in the kitchen.” And by snacks she means she prepared a whole spread of food for us, like she used to do: two types of wings, barbecue and spicy, mozzarella sticks, chips, fruit.
“You can start eating,” I tell Isaac.
Just as I say this, the doorbell rings. Chelsea and Nadine are here, and as soon as Mom hears their voices, she comes downstairs. Mom gives Chelsea the biggest hug, and Jason runs over to Isaac and wraps his arms around his legs.
“I love your haircut, Mrs. Gray,” Chelsea says.
“Thank you. I’m still getting used to it,” Mom says. Mom cut her hair last week. I’ve never seen her with short hair, not even in the photos from her childhood. Her hair has always been long and flat-ironed bone straight, but she said it was too much to manage with all that’s going on, so she cut it. I have been thinking about that ever since, how even just washing and straightening hair has become too much since Dad’s been sick.
“How’s your mom, Nadine?” Mom asks.
“She’s fine.”
“Tell her I said hello. I owe her a phone call.” Mom takes out plates from the cabinet. “Help yourselves,” she says. “Come on, Jason. We’ve got to finish this math.”
Jason and Mom go into Jason’s room.
I sit in the kitchen with Chelsea, Nadin
e, and Isaac and feast on the food Mom put out. Then we make our way to the living room. Isaac takes out his sketchbook and starts doodling as we talk. He always does this—draws while talking. It used to annoy me, made me feel like he wasn’t listening, but I think it actually helps him focus.
Nadine sits on the floor and leans her back against the sofa. “So, how are things with the women’s rights club?”
“We still have the club,” Chelsea says. “But I feel like Principal Hayes is watching everything we do. He basically gave us a warning that if our blog causes any more trouble, he’ll shut the club down.”
“But Write Like a Girl didn’t start all that drama,” Isaac says.
Chelsea looks at me. “See?”
“I agree. I know it’s not our fault, and I definitely think we should keep speaking out. I just want to be smart about it. And, well, I want to do more than just the blog. We should think outside of just what the school requires us to do. If we really want to make a point that women’s voices deserve to be heard, that our school has to do better—let’s take action.”
“What could we do?” Chelsea asks.
“Okay, so Isaac and I just came back from the Schomburg Center,” I tell them. When I say this, Chelsea smiles, but I don’t even acknowledge it. I just keep on talking like I don’t see her over there gushing and looking at Isaac.
Isaac’s eyes light up like he knows what I’m about to say. His wrist slides back and forth as he shades in something on the page.
“They have an exhibit up right now on Emory Douglas and the Black Panther Party.” I tell them about the newspaper the Black Panthers had, how art was a big part of getting messages across and how they had a list of demands of things they wanted.
Isaac erases something, blows the dust off the page, and holds up his sketchbook. “They looked something like this,” he says.
Chelsea takes his notebook and looks his drawing over. “This is . . . wow, Isaac, you are so talented. I mean, look at this—” She hands the book to Nadine.
“So, I was thinking Isaac could draw something for our club, and we can make buttons or something—something with a quote about our voices being important and how we cannot be silenced,” I say.
“Yes, because him warning us is threatening to silence us,” Chelsea says. Then she says, “Isaac, what do you think? Can you draw something for us?”
He takes his sketchbook back, closes it. “A button might be too small, but I like the idea of us wearing something. Maybe I can design a T-shirt. We can get a small order made and have people wear them at school.”
“Yes!” Chelsea says. “We could all show up to school wearing our shirts and we won’t even have to say a word. Whatever quote we choose will speak for itself.” Chelsea takes her phone out, and I know that she’s looking up quotes already.
Nadine says, “That’s perfect. It’s like responding to the idiots who wore disrespectful costumes. We’ll wear something that speaks against that.”
I ask Isaac, “Are you sure you have time for this?”
“Of course. I’d do anything for you.”
Nadine can’t help herself. She blurts out, “Oh, you’re doing this for Jasmine. Not for us, for women’s rights, for the cause? Oh, we see how it is.”
Isaac throws a pillow at her. Chelsea is spilling over with laughter, and all I can do is shake my head and act like I didn’t also catch that Isaac just said he’d do anything for me. Just as I am about to ask if anyone wants something more to eat or drink, I hear the bedroom door open. Dad walks slowly out of his room. He looks thinner today, even thinner than yesterday, and he is walking like every part of his body is in pain. He says hello, and I can see the fear and sadness and anxiousness in everyone’s eyes.
I look away from Dad, stare at the yellow pillow lying on the floor that Isaac threw. Focus on the brightness, try my best to hold on to its light.
Once everyone is gone, Dad comes back into the living room and sits on the sofa. “So I see you and Gloria Steinem have gathered your troops.” He smiles, but it looks painful on his face, not like his normal, joyous smile.
“So much is going on at school, Dad. Every day it’s some new drama with our club.”
“Sounds like you all are figuring it out. I read what you wrote for the blog.”
“You did? Do you think I was disrespectful?”
“Now you know I would have said something to you if I did,” Dad says. He shifts his body, getting more comfortable against the throw pillows. “I think you stood up for yourself, and that was brave.”
I walk across the living room and sit next to Dad on the sofa.
“You’ve definitely got the Gray gene,” he says. “Speaking up, standing up for what you believe in. That kind of courage runs in your veins.” I know Dad is thinking of his father, who was a preacher, and his grandfather, who was a community organizer who worked on voting rights. Dad turns the television on. We watch Family Feud and yell out answers at the TV. We get more right than either team. Something else that runs in our genes, I guess.
Dad falls asleep before the final round. I lay my head on his chest, like I used to do when I was little. I can hear Dad’s heart beating. I listen to his drum beat on and on. He is my favorite song.
It’s Saturday. The one day of the week when I can sleep in, so I take full advantage and roll over again. I’ve been trying to get the image of Mr. Gray out of my mind ever since I saw him a couple of weeks ago. Try to forget how thin he is and how he moves so slow. I try to see him the way he was before the cancer, making loud jokes and dancing in the living room with Jason and Jasmine. I used to love going to their house after school. They used to listen to music during dinner, which I thought was so cool. When I tried to attempt it at my house, my mom shut it down right away, saying there was too much noise in her life, and she needed some quiet at the end of the day. I remember Mr. Gray’s laugh the most, and while he still tries, I can feel the tension. I miss the way it used to be.
When I finally pull myself from the covers, I see that Mia has flung hers onto the floor, and she’s already up. When I get to the kitchen, she’s eating the most massive bowl of Fruity Pebbles I’ve ever seen.
“That’s disgusting,” I say, grabbing the box and reading how many grams of sugar are in one serving.
“Shut up,” she mumbles, “I don’t have time for your food justice this morning. Besides, you know you want some.”
I pour myself a bowl. “Where is everybody?”
“Mom went to yoga. She’s gotta manage some of that anxiety with some meditation. I forced her to go. And Dad’s grading papers at the library.”
We eat in silence. The to-do list in my head is growing. Shower, get dressed, finish my poem for afternoon workshop—Leidy Blake teaches a class called Radical Acts for Beginners at Word Up every week, and I’m her best, and sometimes only, student—pick up the shirts from T-Shirt Express on the Upper West Side, and then head to workshop. I can’t wait to see how they look. Isaac pulled a couple of all-nighters last week to finish our original designs—he’s a total champion for the cause. We chose five powerhouse women who’ve changed the game. It took hours to decide, so we had to use a massive chart to make sure we were inclusive of art forms, ethnicities, and work for and about women. They had to truly represent womanist/feminist interests and ideals. We got into a pretty heated argument about Janet Jackson and Beyoncé, but we had to pull it back because we wanted to have more history and less pop magic, although I’m still gonna try to get Isaac to make me a shirt that says, “No, my first name ain’t baby, it’s Chelsea,” and on the back, “Ms. Spencer if you’re nasty.” That would be sooo awesome.
“You have basketball practice today, right?” I ask Mia, who’s slathering a bagel with extra cream cheese.
“Yup, two p.m. at the gym. I gotta go for a run first.”
“Okay, cool, you think I could drop off some of those shirts I was telling you about? Maybe the team would wear them next week to school?”
> “Sure, I can definitely let them know it’s for my little sister and her crew. I think they’d do that for you, and all your little weirdo friends.”
I show her a couple of designs. Isaac has used a composite of the women and highlighted their faces on the front along with their names below. On the back it says Woman Warrior and an awesome quote from each of them—this is who they are and what they say:
And at the bottom, just a little smaller it says Write Like a Girl—Join the Conversation. It’s just radical enough, I think. I take a gulp of Mia’s orange juice and get in the shower.
I run to the train downstairs and jump on the A, studying the ads right away. There’s one that’s particularly gross—an ad for plastic surgery where one woman holds oranges in front of her breasts with a super-sad face, and another woman right next to her holds melons in front of her breasts, and of course on her face, there’s a massive smile. Every time I see that ad I get so depressed about the state of the world, but when I get up closer, I see that someone has written across the top, “Or love yourself, and donate to breast cancer instead.” Yes, I think. I take my phone out and snap a shot to send to Jasmine. I compose the text:
This is what I’m talking about—live actions! I mean, that’s what we need to do, we need to be taking down crappy ads and media and men who are setting out to totally destroy our self-worth.
I switch trains at 125th Street, and along with the Poetry in Motion posters, which I so want to have one of my poems on someday, I see the ads for Thinx, the period underwear, which I love.
